They Dance
by Anria
Summary: [Vignette, counter fic for Rokeon] Someone watches Yohji and Schuldig dance together, and wonders who he's jealous of - his teammate, or the enemy...


Phew! Okies, this is kinda short (and kinda one giant metaphor) but who cares! Enjoy!

**Summary**: Schuldig and Yohji think they've kept their relationship hidden from both teams, but they're wrong. POV belongs to one of the other Weiss/Schwarz members, one who's trying to deal with his jealousy - but where is that jealousy directed? At the enemy sleeping with the one he wants, or at the teammate doing what he's secretly wished for?  
**Warnings**: angst, unknown POV, more descriptive than my usual stuff, short  
**Pairings**: Schuldig/Yohji, ?/guess  
**Archive**: (The Temple of Lunacy)  
**Note**: counter fic for Rokeon, for being the 3,000 visitor to The Temple of Lunacy! Yay! 

**They Dance**  
by Anria

_They dance._   
  
Twisting, grinding, moving sinuously through the heavy mass of drunken people like there's no one else in the world. Arms around each other, locked at the lip, red and green lights painting their skin in iridescent colours, they stand out above the crowd. Without realising it, the crowd parts for them as they move across the floor, dancing like they're making love with their clothes on. Hands, lips, eyes all reserved for each other. Wavy blond hair shines as one tips his head back, kiss-swollen lips parted as the other dips his head to trace the long line of his lover's neck with his mouth.   
  
_They dance._   
  
Twirling, writhing, so absorbed in each other the world could end and they would not care. No one pays any attention to them; no one but him. He watches as they dance on, oblivious, drunk on the taste of the other, forgetting for a while. Forgetting name, friends, employers. Forgetting that they are meant to be enemies.   
  
_They dance._   
  
It's not a dance that anyone would teach, he thinks. The dance is a mating ritual without formal ceremony; a dance which will culminate in private, in a soft bed, with whispered moans and sighs and the slick movement of skin on skin. It is connected to the music only by the pounding rhythm that beats in their blood, urging them to move closer, and closer still, to find a way to be one body, one person, one soul, if only for a moment.   
  
_They dance._   
  
He wonders which of them leads the other; which of them started this dance. He wonders if either of them has noticed how it has become so much more than it was at first, wonders if they see themselves as he does.   
  
He wonders which one of them he hates more.   
  
_They dance._   
  
They never seem to tire, never seem to slow down or speed up or otherwise change the tilting, thrusting, rocking pace of their dance, spiralling towards its inevitable conclusion. Strong, pale fingers shine through the shaggy, wild orange mass of hair that spills down one of the dancer's backs, clenching to draw his head towards the other's for yet one more bruising, soul-searching kiss. When they draw back, they are smiling - the smile of those with a secret that can never be told and is all the more delicious for it.   
  
_They dance._   
  
They will leave soon, he knows. It will not be long before they tire of this part of the dance, and decide by mutual, unspoken consent to move it on to the privacy of a rented hotel room with a large, soft bed and a by-the-hour charge. There they will remove clothing with gentle care combined with a reckless heat until their bodies touch and they move towards the culmination of the next part of the intricate dance they weave with each other. By the morning's light, one or both will be gone. And then, a few days later, it will start anew.   
  
_They dance._   
  
When he first discovered the treachery of his teammate, a deep, hot anger swelled up in him, an anger born from jealousy. He'd thought he'd known who he would want to strike at the most, who he would want to rend limb from limb and destroy, screaming his pain and anger and hatred up to the sky. And then, unknown to them, he had had his chance to strike. . . .   
  
And he had hesitated. Because he had not known who to strike.   
  
_They dance._   
  
So he watches them now, watches them twist and writhe and grind their way through this part of their dance, the only part outsiders are allowed to see. He watches, and he does not dance himself, because the only one he would dance with has a dance all of his own, and someone to share it with who dances to the same song.   
  
_They dance._   
  
And he never will.

**[Owari]**

Uh . . . yeah. Weirdness aside, what did you think?


End file.
